


the dead things we carry

by birdsandivory



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Bathing, Caretaking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, True Love, a little bittersweetness, soft and sweet dedue as always, they have an established 'something'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:42:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23068681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsandivory/pseuds/birdsandivory
Summary: “I am unclean.”He meant it only metaphorically, and yet, Dedue knows he can do nothing to cleanse him but this. Soap and water across timeless scars twisting like maps to the east; a regrettable reminder with every glance Dimitri takes of his own skin. Dedue does what he can to save him from himself, even if they both have to pretend what always will be never was.So, Dedue bathes him, brushes through his hair and lathers his body, and cares ever so gently for the vessel of a soul who had wanted nothing more than to save people, but was cursed with suffering the pain of those countless lives instead.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Dedue Molinaro, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Dedue Molinaro, Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Dedue Molinaro
Comments: 4
Kudos: 78





	the dead things we carry

**Author's Note:**

> more than happy to write another painfully loving dimidue! this pairing really just pulls at my heartstrings, i want to write them being in love forever ;_____; this is my first time writing in dedue's point of view, but i really enjoyed it, so i might stick to it for a while. besides, he thinks of dimitri so softly, i can't help myself. 
> 
> part one of this series is NOT a required read. there are just a few references to it, but they aren't needed to understand the story!
> 
> thank you, [maki](https://twitter.com/trustmymitt), for always being my beta!

***

It happens like this. 

Dedue is listening intently to Felix as he drones at the far end of the courtyard about a spread of soldiers he plans to send to the western border; bandits are abound these days and he relies on Dedue for military advisory often. And so, they find themselves here frequently. Of course, Felix’s plan is viable, as always—creative, forward-thinking. However, this time he’s describing his orders in great detail, and Dedue realizes that this conversation is to be memorized. He explains that he’ll be on leave and there isn’t much time for him to deploy troops himself, isn’t enough time to give the word. The burden is left to Dedue because, between himself and Sylvain—who is next in line when the general is away—he is more reliable in giving and following orders, Felix’s trust in him strengthened by years of friendship instead of memories of loss and disdain. 

Dedue feels they are as close as they’ll ever be. 

And his heart is light from the very thought, only cascading to earth when Dimitri enters the courtyard from the west wing: broad, powerful, and dressed immaculately in his kingly raiments. He’s such a picture of perfection that Dedue nearly misses the furrow of his platinum brow and the way his walk is stiff, rigid with emotion. But both Dedue and Felix have known their king long enough to know when something is grievously wrong. 

They fall to silence when Dimitri stands before them. Felix extends his hand in greeting only to be refused, and Dedue thinks he understands where his oldest friend is coming from when Dimitri smiles shakily, apologetically. Felix does nothing but smile back—something many of them see on his face more nowadays. It reminds Dedue of Rodrigue. He’s become like his father over the years, albeit a far better version in his eyes.

Without much more effort wasted, Felix turns from Dimitri and regards Dedue.

“Keep Sylvain in check while I’m away,” Felix says pointedly to him, and he waits for Dedue’s curt nod before turning to Dimitri with a bow so respectful it would almost be appalling if not for his endearingly sarcastic: “Your Majesty.”

And then, as if Felix hadn’t even been there, Dedue and his king are alone.

Silence draws long between them, but Dedue knows better than to speak first. He’s known better since the beginning. It’s more important to listen to Dimitri, for fear that something principal might be missed. Those five years spent separated from him were enough; whatever he fails to see cannot ever be replaced—not ever. 

When Dimitri finally looks at him, Dedue knows he was right to wait. 

There’s something stricken in Dimitri’s expression, something Dedue understands but cannot fathom at the same time. It leaves his chest in knots, especially as he reaches forward only for his king to step back, bowing his head instead of giving in to Dedue’s touch. 

It’s so unlike a king, so unlike Dimitri at his best.

“Please, do not let me get in the way of your duties,” he says, as though he has something to apologize for. He looks forlorn and yet, he’s far from devastation, lips curling upward slightly. It’s a small smile, but Dedue is inclined to smile back all the same, even if there’s something on the tips of both of their tongues. “But, if you would, come by my chambers later. I would like to...”

It’s appropriate, Dedue thinks. The request. It’s almost too appropriate for someone like Dimitri who is acquainted with someone like Dedue—in a way that almost dances flirtatiously along the lines of friendship and something else. It’s loyalty and trust and care that he used to loathe thinking he was ever deserving of. And yet, despite the melancholy circumstance, it’s just as Dedue’s always wanted.

This privilege that Dimitri has granted him, keeping him so close. 

“I would like to...” Dimitri tries again and Dedue listens even more closely this time in hopes that the notes in his king’s voice would tell him of his sudden insecurities, of the sighs and drooping shoulders that barely carried him through the castle in dark times. He detects such patterns easily, nodding despite the fact that Dimitri is looking far from his gaze. 

“As you wish,” Dedue agrees, trying to keep that seed of worry within him from blooming, especially as Dimitri silently walks away without ease—favoring his left leg over his right, surely reminding them both of past injuries that are finally taking their toll. How difficult it must be, he can sympathize, for events years gone to settle into the mind and body and never being able to be rid of them. 

Dedue looks away from Dimitri’s back as he retreats into the castle and down to the parchment handed to him by Felix prior to his departure, folding it into his pocket and casting it aside for another time. 

Hundreds of bandits aren’t of concern where his king is involved.

Instead of duties and obligations, he wonders if Dimitri knows that he isn’t going to follow his order. He wonders if he knows that Dedue is simply going to escort him at a distance instead, unable to execute his mission perfectly when matters of Dimitri’s health lie at the forefront of his mind. It simply cannot be done. 

Dedue follows.

It takes time to reach his rooms. Where many of the castle staff seem to steer clear of Dimitri’s way when he’s in a sudden gloom, they have deemed Dedue a natural second choice to voice their concerns to. He finds himself stopped in the vast halls more than a handful of times and, respectful as he is, Dedue offers his fully honest and earnest answers to their questions. He is happy to take up the mantle when his friends cannot, even doubly so when said friend is his suffering king.

When Dedue steps into Dimitri’s chambers, he sees him standing in the middle of the room, as if the knowledge of Dedue’s speedy arrival hadn’t allowed him rest. He looks panicked, but not outrightly so, not in the wide-eyed way he used to. It’s almost more terrifying, Dedue thinks, seeing him _this_ way. 

So much of Dedue wants to say something, to reach forward and relieve his king’s burden—but he has made his promise. 

Some things must be asked for. 

And Dimitri has asked for nothing but Dedue. 

“Dedue.” His name on Dimitri’s lips is clipped, sudden and stern like an order. Dedue’s posture shifts, tall and looming just feet away, awaiting command. But Dimitri’s shoulders slump, defeated, and Dedue’s heart stutters painfully in his chest when the deepest blue gaze he’s ever known is just watered over—voice broken as he says, wrongfully in Dedue’s most humble opinion: “I am unclean.”

He is no longer Dedue then. He is irreplaceable, cherished. And if his behavior thus far has earned him that, then he must keep going in order to continue being worthy of such titles. 

Dedue steps forward without thought until he is standing before his king, and when their gazes meet, his hands divest Dimitri of his fur-trimmed robes. He’s careful of it, making sure it reaches its home upon Dimitri’s desk chair—a special throne for a prized possession—but doesn’t give it too much attention, immediately returning to his liege’s side. He makes quick work of his vestments, and Dimitri allows him to, blue eye hollow despite being framed by such lively, fluttering lashes. And it’s only when he is stripped of all but his smallclothes that Dedue presses a warm hand to the back of Dimitri’s neck, leading him gently, slowly, to the washroom beyond one of the many doors within his chambers.

Dimitri is quiet, looking listlessly at nothing as Dedue sets about the tedious job of drawing his bath. He looks torn apart, wrought with grief from devastating nightmares that follow him from sleep into daylight. Dedue cannot bear it: so many years later, and still, Dimitri is plagued. 

He can only thank _his_ gods that such occurrences are now rare. 

Touching the surface of the bathwater, Dedue notes that it is near scalding, hot enough to wash away Dimitri’s bodily aches and pains—hopefully hot enough to chase the demons away, too. 

When he looks up from the water, Dimitri does as well. Their eyes meet again and Dedue thinks he sees something other than lifelessness within that blue gaze; he just hasn’t a name to put to it yet.

Dimitri lets his smallclothes fall from his hips. Slowly and begrudgingly, he forces himself into the tub. It’s harder on him today, Dedue notes, the scar on his knee is swollen, aggravated—and Dedue wonders if Dimitri tried to heal his heart by running his body ragged during training the day before. He is by no means weak, but Dedue can tell he’s in pain. 

Still, he doesn’t help him anymore than he needs to, simply waits, because he knows Dimitri feels he is his own burden despite all he asks for.

It’s only when he’s seated within the pool of hot water that Dedue’s hand tenderly touches him, calloused fingers gentle along the softness of Dimitri’s cheek, his thumb sliding beneath the patch covering a damaged eye. Dedue is touched when his king does not flinch, not even as his fingertip glides along jagged, clumped scars and he lifts their shield away. 

The sight of Dimitri bare of everything relieves him, and though it’s selfish to admit, Dedue thinks he is utterly enchanting. 

He does not voice such. 

Locking those feelings away and far out of reach, Dedue sets out on his task. He takes his time, drenching spun gold strands with water and finding it curious that Dimitri shivers when it was drawn so hot, but Dedue continues without judgement, spilling into his hands soaps gifted to the king by Mercedes. 

Dedue cards his fingers through shining platinum locks, already perfectly styled and smelling of chamomile, clean and brushed through since morning. He lathers sweet-smelling soap into the strands despite how pleasantly fragrant they are already, overlapping one scent with another simply because Dimitri wishes it, simply because cleaning that which is already clean will help his king feel more like the self he lost long ago. 

He can only think that makes the most sense. He would never question it if he thought otherwise, nonetheless. 

His fingers graze over the back of Dimitri’s pale neck, scratching at his scalp slowly, gingerly. And it’s only then that Dedue feels him relax beneath his touch, a long sigh escaping his lips. Though, he knows that a sigh doesn’t mean Dimitri wishes to talk; it’s just one of many walls that must fall before he’s ready to speak.

And that is only _if_ he ever is.

Dedue knows he might never be, and that’s alright, too. 

Even though he spent war at Dimitri’s side, he’s aware they both saw vastly different things, suffered the unspeakable side by side and simultaneously alone. 

Dedue’s hands reach for a sponge, lathering it until a heavy fragrance fills the room, pleasant and calming. 

_“I am unclean.”_

Dedue exhales through his nose, scrubbing gently Dimitri’s back. 

_“I am unclean.”_

He meant it only metaphorically, and yet, Dedue knows he can do nothing to cleanse him but this. Soap and water across timeless scars twisting like maps to the east; a regrettable reminder with every glance Dimitri takes of his own skin. Dedue does what he can to save him from himself, even if they both have to pretend what always will be never was. 

So, Dedue bathes him, brushes through his hair and lathers his body, and cares ever so gently for the vessel of a soul who had wanted nothing more than to help, but was cursed with suffering the pain of countless lives instead. 

It isn’t at all glorious, nor is it noble, and it will earn him no gratitude from councils or leagues of knights—but it’s the very least, _the very least,_ he can do for the one person he undeniably cares for. 

Dedue loves him. 

When he drags the sponge over Dimitri’s shoulders and across his chest, he reminds himself that he should not be thinking of pressing soft, reassuring kisses to a pale temple or holding that scarred body close when Dimitri is still so fragile. He would just find a way to twist the notion into something ugly, something he doesn’t believe he deserves, and fall deeper into despair. There is time for that, but it isn’t now. 

Fingers trail along one of Dimitri’s arms, laden with scars—carrying stories for the history books—until they wrap carefully around a pale wrist. The pad of his thumb strokes along the pillow of Dimitri’s palm, not so much ghosting rather than making himself known, assuring that he’s there, mapping a hand that’s been in his more times than he can count. Soft and supple. Leathery and covered in blood. Slender and seeking something more. 

Dedue is not behind him any longer, but at Dimitri’s side in that very next moment, both of his hands now surrounding one that twitches in fear, the other fallen beneath the water’s surface. They will get there. 

Gone is the sponge, discarded to the lip of the tub for later. Only Dedue’s massaging, meandering fingers remain. Dedue takes all the time he deems necessary with Dimitri’s hands, as if showing him proof that they’re truly clean of blood. 

Some would say this is beneath him, that he is an esteemed right hand—but Dedue would argue that he is not one hand, but two, to be used as his king sees fit.

To know Dimitri is a privilege, to do something like this, an honor. For only a _savior_ has hands like these, only a—

“You have to scrub them harder, Dedue.” His voice sounds strangely hollow and the hand Dedue isn’t holding springs from the water, grabbing the sponge. Dimitri snatches his fingers from Dedue’s, scrubbing at the palms with a pained, frenzied look upon his face. The strength of his scouring turns pale hands red, Dimitri seemingly unsatisfied, as if he hopes to break skin. “You must, you must—”

“No.” 

Dedue ignores the pain in his heart as he grabs Dimitri’s wrists, holding them still with one hand as he carefully plucks the sponge from gripping fingers. He discards it for good, tossing it into a wash bucket on the floor. 

He doesn’t need it; he’ll take care of the rest on his own. 

And he’ll first do that by showing his king how to care for such grand, powerful hands. 

_Gently,_ gently. 

And when their angry redness calms and they’re rinsed of soap, Dimitri uses his cleansed hands to squeeze his fingers. They seem so small in Dedue’s own.

“I’m sorry”— _for everything_ goes unsaid, and Dedue can’t help but pause and meet that too blue stare, glowing like Fhirdiad’s lunar lotus, and search for a reason to forgive him despite feeling as though he shouldn’t be sorry at all. Instead, he smiles, rare and kind. And tangible in a way that is evidence in itself that Dimitri’s endeavors have created more happiness than sadness.

“Dimitri,” he says evenly, not missing that quiet gasp sighed every time Dedue says his true name. “Thank you.” 

The confusion on Dimitri’s face makes him feel guilty, the way his brows frown as though he can’t fathom why that would even be a response to a plea for forgiveness, the way his hands tremble like he’s not sure of what to say. If Dedue perhaps said something different, maybe Dimitri would already know, but there’s no reason to feed him false lines for his betterment—Dedue’s thanks is what he has to give, for more than just the chance to be by his side. 

Even if Dimitri doesn’t understand now, he will someday. 

Dedue’s hands travel from Dimitri’s to his forearms and beyond, delicately washing him from head to toe with the utmost care, erasing false filth and years of travesty from his skin. He is particularly careful with His Majesty’s knee, fingers gliding over that twisted reminder that some do not want Dimitri on the throne, and lets it hide beneath the water once he’s finished so that any lingering memories aren’t stirred by his actions.

Dimitri lies with his head back, forearm covering his eyes and shielding him from an image he doesn’t wish to see. Pathetic, pitiful, he must think of himself, but Dedue knows better than he does. 

The king is safe here—such pity will be forgotten with time. 

Even when he’s hauled up from the water and dried, he protests quietly, as if he finally realizes how shameful his request should be. Only, instead of acquiescing, Dedue merely hums in response and continues to towel his hair. Those objections finally cease once he is dressed for bed and Dedue leads him, hand tucked into his arm, to an immaculately made bed. 

Dimitri is tucked in himself with extreme care, so much so that Dedue hears him laugh under his breath. It’s a mirthless sound, but it’s there, and that gives him hope.

The next day he will return in the early morning, make sure all is in order, that Dimitri has recovered—and lend his hand in gathering bearings before a mere man has to be king once more. 

But for now, he faces his dearest one, and bows low. 

“Is there anything else you need, Your Majesty?”

Fingertips graze his temple and he is stilled by their softness. They linger along the shell of his ear, walk their way into his hair clumsily, as if they’re not sure where to go while still having the courage to wander. “Dedue...”

Looking up, he’s mystified by the sight of Dimitri’s eyes. 

He can’t stare upon Dedue with his right; it’s long since been scarred shut, just the sliver of an iris shining between two heavy lids, but Dedue still finds it beautiful. When beside the other, bright and gleaming, and breathtakingly sad—he sees no ugliness, no sign of battle, no unfair casualty of war. He simply sees the man who saved him, as exquisite and fascinating as he was years ago, lips looking as though they could smile at any moment. 

Dimitri is not at his best yet, not even after all these years. But, he will be, Dedue thinks. His smile still shines like the radiant sun, and he laughs enough now to make up for five years of torment. The nightmares and self-hatred still remain, but Dedue believes it is only a matter of time before the past is merely a memory and Dimitri is truly well. 

He can see it in his gaze.

“Your Grace?”

“Stay here tonight.” 

Dedue’s breath catches at the request, and more so, the beating of his heart quickens. They have never shared a bed before, at least, not for a night complete. He remembers with much ache a moment when they were small, Dimitri clinging to his back and apologies falling from his lips for punishments that weren’t even dealt by his hand. 

Would this time be any different?

“Dimitri—”

“Nothing matters—none of it does,” Dimitri says in haste, though it’s nothing but a whisper, and that stare he fixes on Dedue shatters him—not for its sadness, but for the way it falls, relinquishing all madness. 

As if the shadow no longer looms, as if he is himself once more. 

“Please,” he says, and Dedue breaks easily.

He strips himself, removing adornments he never thought he’d wear, gleaming beneath the candlelight. And he sets his earring on the bedside table, not once hesitant in removing it. He’s never parted with it before, but it seems wrong to wear it when beside him lies something even more precious than gold, more so than gems and treasure. 

Dedue falls into bed after snuffing the candle’s flame, wrapped warm in blankets the moment his head drops onto a pillow by the king himself. A heavy arm winds around him as a weight rests atop his chest, platinum strands splayed like beams of sunlight. His hand finds solace in stroking along a corded back painted with the bane of fairy tale princes, fondness ever growing as he lies beneath Dimitri’s sigh. 

And the memories are just that.

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter.](https://twitter.com/birdsandivory)


End file.
